December the Thirteenth

William Drummond, Born 1585
Heinrich Heine, Born 1797

PRAYER

Be not afraid to pray·

to pray is right.

Pray, if thou canst, with hope; but ever pray,
Though hope be weak, or sick with long delay;
Pray in the darkness, if there be no light.
Far is the time, remote from human sight,

When war and discord on the earth shall cease;
Yet every prayer for universal peace
Avails the blessed time to expedite.

Whate'er is good to wish, ask that of Heaven,
Though it be what thou canst not hope to see :
Pray to be perfect, though material leaven
Forbid the spirit so on earth to be;

But if for any wish thou darest not pray,
Then pray to God to cast that wish away.
Hartley Coleridge

TO AMERICA

What, cringe to Europe! Band it all in one,
Stilt its decrepit strength, renew its age,
Wipe out its debts, contract a loan to wage
Its venal battles, — and, by yon bright sun,
Our God is false, and liberty undone,

If slaves have power to win your heritage!
Look on your country, God's appointed stage,

Where man's vast mind its boundless course shall run:
For that it was your stormy coast He spread

A fear in winter; girded you about

With granite hills, and made you strong and dread.
Let him who fears before the foemen shout,

Or gives an inch before a vein has bled,
Turn on himself, and let the traitor out!

George Henry Boker

1

DIRGE FOR THE YEAR

Orphan hours, the year is dead,
Come and sigh, come and weep!
Merry hours, smile instead,

For the year is but asleep.
See, it smiles as it is sleeping,
Mocking your untimely weeping.

As an earthquake rocks a corse
In its coffin in the clay,
So White Winter, that rough nurse,
Rocks the death-cold year to-day;
Solemn hours! wail aloud

For your mother in her shroud.

As the wild air stirs and sways

The tree-swung cradle of a child,
So the breath of these rude days
Rocks the year: be calm and mild,
Trembling hours, she will arise
With new love within her eyes.

January gray is here,

Like a sexton by her grave; February bears the bier,

March with grief doth howl and rave, And April weeps - but, O, ye hours, Follow with May's fairest flowers!

Percy Bysshe Shelley

THE NIGHT PIECE

TO JULIA

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee,
The shooting-stars attend thee,
And the elves also,

Whose little eyes glow

Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.

No Will-o'-th'-wisp mislight thee,
Nor snake nor slow-worm bite thee;
But on, on thy way,

Not making a stay,

Since ghost there's none to affright thee!

Let not the dark thee cumber;
What though the moon does slumber?
The stars of the night

Will lend thee their light,

Like tapers clear, without number.

Then, Julia, let me woo thee,

Thus, thus to come unto me;
And when I shall meet
Thy silvery feet,

My soul I'll pour into thee!

Robert Herrick

O SWALLOW, SWALLOW

O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South, Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee.

O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each, That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, And dark and true and tender is the North.

O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light
Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill,
And cheep and twitter twenty million loves.

O were I thou that she might take me in, And lay me on her bosom, and her heart Would rock the snowy cradle till I died.

Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love, Delaying as the tender ash delays

To clothe herself, when all the woods are green?

O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown:
Say to her, I do but wanton in the South,
But in the North long since my nest is made.

O tell her, brief is life, but love is long, And brief the sun of summer in the North, And brief the moon of beauty in the South.

O Swallow, flying from the golden woods, Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine, And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee.

Alfred Tennyson

O MISTRESS MINE

O Mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O stay and hear! your true-love's coming
That can sing both high and low;
Trip no further, pretty sweeting,
Journeys end in lovers meeting –

Every wise man's son doth know.

What is love? 'tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure:

In delay there lies no plenty,

Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure.

William Shakespeare

ON FAME

Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy
To those who woo her with too slavish knees,
But makes surrender to some thoughtless boy,
And dotes the more upon a heart at ease;
She is a Gipsy, — will not speak to those

Who have not learnt to be content without her; A Jilt, whose ear was never whisper'd close,

Who thinks they scandal her who talk about her; A very Gipsy is she, Nilus-born,

Sister-in-law to jealous Potiphar;

Ye lovesick Bards! repay her scorn for scorn;
Ye Artists lovelorn! madmen that ye are!
Make your best bow to her and bid adieu,
Then, if she likes it, she will follow you.

John Keats